Bedded By The Boss: The Boss's Demand / Something about the Boss... / Beguiling the Boss

She remembered his warnings against showing any prurient interest in him. The thought triggered a rash impulse to test Elan’s sense of humor by asking if she could be fired for saying the word lubricant in his presence.

Mercifully she held her tongue. She dug her fingernails into her palms, tried to control the craziness goading her. Why on earth would she want to provoke and irritate her new boss?

She had an almost irresistible urge to see what lay behind the highly polished granite facade Elan Al Mansur presented to the world.

He drew himself up, took off his suit jacket and hung it over the back of his chair. Unhooked his gold cuff links, dropped them on the desk and rolled up his sleeves. His forearms were muscled, brown and dusted with black hair.

The thought of those forearms closing around her waist, holding her tight, swept through her mind like a gale-force wind.

She stepped backward and smoothed the front of her suit with a hand, trying to brush away the bizarre physical sensation assailing her.

Elan pushed his shirtsleeves up above his elbows as he settled into his chair. Sara suspected her face was blazing as she struggled to keep her eyes off his arms. An arm, for crying out loud! What on earth was wrong with her?

The watch on that arm probably cost more than her mother’s last round of chemo treatments. It was gold, the white face covered with dials. Probably a Rolex. She suspected nothing but the best was good enough for Elan Al Mansur.

“You have no work to do, Sara?” He looked up from his papers, fixing her with a slit-eyed stare. She jumped inwardly.

“I wasn’t sure if you needed anything.”

“If I want something, I’ll let you know.” One broad finger rested on the page, marking his place. “In the meantime, I’ll expect you to provide your own entertainment.”

He’d been aware of her eyes on him, studying him, appraising him. Enjoying him. Humiliation clenched her gut. She turned swiftly away as she felt a renewed blush darken her cheeks.

“Would you like me to change the water in that vase of roses?” From one of his legions of tormented admirers, no doubt.

He looked at her for a moment.

“No.” He glanced back to his papers. “Perhaps you could take them home? I don’t like flowers.”

“I can’t take them home, I ride a bike to work. But I’ll put them on my desk. They’ll brighten the place up a bit. Thanks.”

She paused to bury her face in the yellow blooms. The soothing scent of rose petals filled her senses, relaxed her.

“They’re lovely.”

“Not to me. They’ll be dead in a day or two. I don’t wish to watch them die.”

“I’ll enjoy their swan song. If you don’t need anything else, I’ll take off for the day.”

He glanced quickly at his expensive watch. “Fine.” He went back to shuffling a concertina of papers between his powerful fingers. She lifted the vase and moved toward the door, opened it with her hip.

“Good night.” She turned to him.

Lowered in concentration, his face was hidden from her until he raised it. “You ride a bike to work?”

“Yes.” She paused, waiting for his disapproval.

“I see.” He looked at her for a moment, stony features unreadable. Then he turned back to his papers, opened his pen, and etched a dramatic signature into the crisp white document on his desk.

Sara slipped out through the door with a silent sigh of relief and heard it close softly behind her.

Elan placed the signed papers in his out-box and rose slowly from his chair. He stood in front of the floor-to-ceiling window that looked over the parking lot toward the desert and the distant mountain range beyond.

The sun hung low in the sky, glinting off geometric rows of cars baking in the late-afternoon sun. Many employees had already left. The rest were striding across the parking lot, climbing into their cars and driving out through the gates in an orderly fashion like so many instinctive ants.

A lone figure broke from the orderly procession of cars, darting among them, zigzagging across the parking lot on a bicycle.

Sara.

He narrowed his eyes, straining to get a better look at her. She’d changed out of her beige suit. Of course, who would ride a bicycle in a tight skirt? Well, not tight, but fitted, hugging the curve of her hips gently, as he recalled rather too clearly.

She’d put on shorts. Bicycle shorts, the stretchy kind. He blinked. Swallowed. Her legs were lean, muscled, powerful. Her tawny hair was tied back in a ponytail. Shouldn’t she be wearing a helmet?

He tracked her movements across the parking lot as she made a diagonal path to the exit while the long line of cars wound patiently around the edge of the lot. She stood on her pedals as she went over a speed bump, lifted her backside into the air.

He coughed and turned away. Experienced a sudden rush of uncomfortable sensation. Something stirred inside him that surprised and annoyed him. His pulse pounded and he opened his mouth to breathe.

He moved away from the window and undid another button on his shirt to loosen it. The powerful visual of Sara’s raised hips taunted him.

A plain little thing? Not so. She merely plied her feminine charms in a more calculated fashion than the girls in miniskirts and high heels.

But already he could see she was no different from the others.

Two (#ulink_bef5548d-b4f4-5627-adbf-39c36da576c5)

“You may call me Elan.”

The rumble of his voice echoed in a previously undiscovered part of her anatomy. She swallowed hard.

“All right, Elan.”

His name, spoken in her voice, sounded strangely intimate. The intimacy was a gift to cherish, a reward for her successful first week on the job. She knew he was pleased with her performance. Twice he’d sent her to meetings in his place, and he’d even allowed her to negotiate a new contract with a pipe supplier.

She’d hoped the allure of his masculine charms would fade with time and overexposure. That, unfortunately, had not yet happened.

“Sara, here’s my speech for the conference next week. Please proof it and give me your opinion.”

He lifted a sheaf of handwritten papers. She noted with chagrin that even his writing was sexy. Bold, thick cursive flowed black from his solid-gold fountain pen.

“I’d be glad to.” She took the papers and forced herself not to linger on the seductive thickness of his muscled neck as he bent his head to the stack of contracts she’d handed him.

Elan threw himself into his job with the intensity of a competitive athlete. At the end of the day he looked so tense that she longed to move behind his chair and massage the hard ridges of his shoulders. Longed to hear him sigh with relief as her fingers eased the knots beneath his skin, soothing his tension. Longed to lose her fingertips in the snowy cotton of his shirt, the thick darkness of his hair.

She fought these urges like the beckoning calls to madness they were. A foolish schoolgirl crush that undermined her competence. No possible good could come from sighing over a man who’d made it clear he despised the attentions of female employees. This was the man who held the key to her future in his hands.

Broad, capable hands that haunted her imagination.

“You can read my speech in here if you wish. You won’t be disturbed by your ringing phone.” He indicated a plum-colored leather chair tucked in a corner of his vast office.